The Cruise of the Make-Believes Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  THE PRINCE JUMPS OVER THE WALL

  JUST how long Bessie might have sat there in the dusk of the gardenit is impossible to say; an interruption was to be provided. Almostthe last of her sobs had died away, and she was beginning to realizethat this kind of thing would not do at all, if her small world was tobe kept going, when the door leading into the little alley was openedcautiously, and a young man came in. A very presentable young man, withan honest face inclined to laughter, over which a look of relief wasstealing as he saw the girl sitting there. He closed the gate quietly,and took a few steps towards her; paused and coughed. Instantly shesprang to her feet, and faced him.

  "Good evening!" he said. "Did I startle you?"

  "Very much; I did not know there was anyone there. How long have youbeen here?" she asked suspiciously.

  "I came in this very moment," he assured her. "You see, I'm obliged tocome in that way, because there might be somebody--somebody lookingout for me at the front. Very handy house in that respect." He grinnedcheerfully, and she laughed for very sympathy.

  "Haven't you any good news, Mr. Dorricott?" she asked, forgetting herown troubles for a moment.

  He shook his head. "I went down to the theatre, just to let them know Iwas about, you know, and almost with the hope that someone might fallill--or be run over----"

  "Don't!" she whispered with a shiver.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Meggison--but a fellow gets absolutely murderous attimes, when he thinks of the people who stand in his way. Here am I,without a shilling to bless myself with----"

  "Everyone that I have ever known, and everyone that I ever shall know,has been and will be in that state," exclaimed Bessie with conviction."I don't believe in all the stories about people having more money thanthey know what to do with; I simply can't believe them. All the worldis poor and struggling--and everybody fights for money that they neverby any chance get. I know it!" she said with deep dejection.

  "Well, it isn't quite like that," he replied. "There are fellows in theprofession, for instance, who are known to touch three figures a week,and who simply live in motor-cars; it's a known fact. Other poor devilslike myself walk on with the crowd, or get an understudy--or somethingof that kind."

  "It must be nice to be an actor," said Bessie, looking at him with awe.

  "It is--when you _are_ an actor," he replied solemnly. He moved awaya step or two restlessly, and then came back to her. "I say, MissMeggison--there's something I'd like to say to you."

  "Not about the bill!" she pleaded.

  "About the bill--yes; and about something else," he replied earnestly."The bill worries me horribly--and it worries me more in your casethan it would in the case of anyone else. I haven't any money, andI've got a large appetite--which I endeavour to suppress as much as isconsistent with keeping a figure fit to be seen behind the footlights.Many and many a tasty dish, Miss Meggison, which you may think I scorn,I pass by because I simply feel that I have no right to touch it; itwould not be fair. I never come into your little dining-room withoutseeing the figures of my bill in huge white characters on the wall; I'mashamed of myself."

  "I wish you wouldn't speak of it," she urged.

  "But I must speak of it; it haunts me," he exclaimed. "I know that intime it will be all right; I know that in time I shall be able to payyou in full--and pay other people as well. More than that, the timewill come when you will be proud of me--really proud of me."

  "We're all proud of you now; I laugh still when I think of that timewhen you gave me tickets for the pantomime, and I saw you as the frontpart of the donkey."

  "Don't!" he said in a low tone. "I know I was funny. Everyone saidso--but I could get no real expression into it; you can't when theonly way in which you can move your jaws is by a string. But I shalldo finer things than that. In the years to come I shouldn't be a bitsurprised if Arcadia Street was the scene of a rather imposing littleceremony--on my account."

  "Ceremony?" She looked at him in a bewildered fashion.

  "Yes. They may in all probability affix a tablet to the house,recording the fact that Harry Dorricott once lived here; it'sfrequently done--there's a society for it. They will probably refer tome then as 'poor Harry Dorricott'--and will say how much greater thingsI might have done had I lived."

  "Mr. Dorricott! You're not ill?"

  "Oh dear, no; but I have a sort of feeling that I shall die young--orat least comparatively young. So very many of our best people havedone that. I beg you won't alarm yourself, Miss Meggison," he addedhastily--"because I'm quite all right at the present moment; never feltbetter in my life. The only thing that worries me is about you."

  "About me?"

  "Yes--because you see I'm actually living on you--and that's a shamefulthing. Perhaps you may wonder that I don't go away, and live onsomebody else--some fat and uninteresting old landlady, for instance,who wouldn't matter so much."

  "I shouldn't like you to do that, because she mightn't be kind to you,"said Bessie.

  "Oh--that isn't the reason," he replied, coming near to her, andlooking into her eyes. "You have been kind to me; there's neverbeen anyone in all the world that has done so much for me as youhave--helped me, and urged me on, and cheered me up. That's why,although I owe you this money, I can't go away; I'd rather be a slaveto you than to anyone else. You didn't understand that--did you,dear?" he whispered, not daring even to take her hands. "From the veryfirst moment, when I saw you looking out of the window into ArcadiaStreet, my heart gave a sort of jump, and I knew exactly what hadhappened to me. Bessie--it's because I love you that I can't go away."

  "No--it isn't that; it's only because you're sorry for me, just asquite a lot of other people are sorry for me," she said softly. "Youmustn't think that I don't understand, or that I'm ungrateful; Ishouldn't be telling the truth if I didn't say that it's quite thenicest thing anyone has ever said to me in all my life. But I don'tlove anyone--except my father--and Aubrey; I don't think I've got timeto love anyone. So you mustn't speak about it again, please; you mustforget it. And you can stay as long as you like--and the bill won'tmatter."

  "But you'll give me some better comfort than that, Bessie," urged theboy. "I shan't always be poor; I shall make a great name for myselfsome day, and then I shall be able to lift you out of all this, andmake you happy."

  "I'm not sure that I want to be lifted out of it," she told him,smiling. "Good night--and forget all about it. You're my friend always,I know--and I want friends."

  There in the dark garden, with perhaps an idea in his mind not whollytheatrical, he lifted her hand to his lips before he turned away; andshe stood there, looking after him, with that warm touch still upon herfingers, and with her heart beating a little more rapidly than usual.

  After all, it must be nice to be loved, she thought; to be made muchof, and shielded from the cold, and from hunger and poverty; neverto listen to anything but gentle kindly words; never to have to meetfrowning tradesmen, or duns of any sort; never to trudge through thestreets on Saturday nights, with the certain knowledge that your skirtswere bedraggled, and your feet cold and wet, and that the money in thethin worn purse had come perilously near to nothingness. Oh--that mustbe good indeed!

  She went back into the house--with a strange feeling that to-nightsomething had happened that had changed her; she would never be able tomake-believe any more as she had done. The touch of the boy's lips uponher hand had wakened something in her that had merely lain dormant;she cried out dumbly for her natural and proper birthright. The worldheld something better for her, and it was denied her; she found herselfwondering, without being able to put the question into words, whethershe would ever get that which belonged to her, by right of the factthat she was a woman, and young.

  Mr. Aubrey Meggison came in presently, and insisted on telling her of afew shots he had taken that night on the billiard-table--illustratinghis words by means of a walking-stick on the shabby cover of thedining-room table--and how he had completely "wiped the floor" with hisopp
onent, to the unbounded astonishment of a choice circle which seemedto consist of a billiard-marker, a bookmaker, and a long-dethronedmusic-hall star. The triumphs of the evening, however, had not smoothedhis temper; he complained bitterly about the monotony of bread andcheese, and pushed his food from him with a few elegant expressions ofdisgust.

  "Tact and forethought--that's what you're lackin', Bess," he suggested."You don't think to yourself what's the best thing to suit yourbrother, and your brother's appetite. Not you; the first thing thatcomes along'll do for him."

  She bore his reproaches meekly, until presently he restlessly wanderedout of the house again. He encountered his father on the doorstep; andBessie heard a little wordy warfare between the two--Daniel Meggisonprotesting virtuously that his son should be in bed at ten o'clock tothe minute--and that son suggesting airily that he knew what was bestfor himself. Then Daniel came into the room, not too steadily, butperhaps with the greater dignity on that account.

  "What I've done this night will not soon be forgotten," he said,with a roll of the head. "On their knees, they were, in a mannerof speaking--on their knees, my child. Nothing good enough for me;apologies flying about everywhere. Haughty with them, mind you; nosudden giving way on my part. At the same time--condescending; that'sthe right word--condescending." He sat down, and waved his hand to showexactly what manner he had adopted for the subjugation of the ArcadiaArms, and fell asleep.

  The shabby little room seemed intolerable, with the old man gurglingand choking, and muttering in his sleep in his chair; once again thegirl slipped out into her garden. And now, as if to welcome her, thekindly moon had come over the housetops, and was shedding a radianceeven there. She sat down at the table, and leant her elbows upon it;she did not understand what this new and desperate longing was thathad come upon her. She had been content for so many years; had beenglad to accept things as they were, and to make the best of them. Butnow to-night there was a new and passionate longing for a world and alife that could never be hers at all. As she sat there, staring at theshabby wall before her, the walls seemed to vanish; and there grew upin their place a dim vision of a wide countryside, lying silent andpeaceful under the moon; of a life that was gentle and secure and easy.And beyond that wide countryside, with a path of light made across itby the moon, lay the shining sea. The vision was gone, just as rapidlyas it had come; the grey wall was there; out in the street coarsehoarse voices sounded, and a shout of discordant laughter. She let herhands fall on the table, and bowed her head upon her arms. What had sheto do with dreams?

  It was at that precise moment that Mr. Gilbert Byfield determined towalk out of the house next door into that plot of ground attachedto it which matched that in which Bessie Meggison was seated. Thatparticular plot of ground did not boast any of the adornments of theMeggison garden; it was simply a stretch of bare earth, with scrubbygrass growing here and there in patches. Gilbert thought nothing ofthat, because the place did not interest him, save for the fact that itadjoined the garden next door; and he had already learned that in thatgarden only was the Princess of Arcadia Street to be approached, if onedid it delicately. Accordingly he stole up to the dividing wall now,and peered over it; and so, of course, saw that hopeless figure in themoonlight, leaning over the old table.

  As he had never seen her save with that demure brightness upon herthat seemed to belong to her, he was naturally shocked at thissudden abandonment; besides, she looked pathetic indeed in her utterloneliness in that place. He called softly to her over the wall.

  "Hullo! I say--what's the matter?"

  He called so softly that she did not hear him, nor did she change herposition. After a moment of hesitation, he glanced first at the backof the house he had left, and then at the back of the other one; swunghimself up to the top of the wall; and jumped over. He alighted, asluck would have it, on that defective board in the old box set underthe wall; swore softly to himself, and stepped down to the ground. Thenoise he made had startled the girl; she got quickly to her feet, andmoved away from him.

  "I'm dreadfully sorry," he began, smiling at her.

  But she waved him back hurriedly. "Mr. Byfield!" she said in a whisper,with a glance at the house. "Oh, please--you must go back!--you mustreally go back!"

  "If anyone comes, I can jump over in a moment," he said. "There'snothing to be afraid of--and this is ever so much better than talkingover the wall, you know. By the way," he added ruefully, "I'm afraidI've broken your--your ottoman."

  "It doesn't matter," she said in a dull voice--"and it isn't anottoman. It's an old box."

  "I don't believe it," he exclaimed. "It's an ottoman--and a very niceone at that."

  "You're laughing at me," she said, with the shyness of a child. "Youknow it's all only pretending; you know what a shabby place thisis--really and truly. You've been good and kind about it; you've neverlaughed at me, like other people."

  "God forbid, child!"

  "That's it!" she exclaimed quickly. "Child! That's what you think me;that's what you believe me to be. If a child brought you a broken doll,you'd be sorry, and make much of it, although in your heart you'dlaugh, because it was such a little thing to make a fuss about. Andyou've been sorry for me--and have pretended with me that this placewas what it has never been. And in your heart you have never ceased tolaugh at me."

  "In my heart I have never laughed at you at all," he said solemnly.

  They had unconsciously drawn nearer to each other in the solitudeof the garden under the moon; their hands were touching. For now itseemed that she wanted desperately to touch hands with some friendlybeing--someone, for choice, who came out of the big world mysteriously,as this man had done. She was so much of a child that she neededcomforting; so much of a woman that she needed loving.

  "I was wrong to say that you had laughed at me," she saidpenitently--"you have been the only one that has understood. I wonderif you remember when you first looked over the wall?"

  "Shall I ever forget it!" he exclaimed, in all honesty. "You see, I hadnever imagined any place like this"--he glanced round about him, andwhimsically shook his head as he spoke--"and of course I was surprised.And then I saw you--and I understood at once that you were so differentfrom anyone I had seen in Arcadia Street, or indeed anywhere. And sowe--we talked."

  "I shall never forget it," she said. "I had always tried tomake-believe a little, because when one does that one gets away fromall the tiresome things--all the things that _must_ happen, and yetthat ought not to happen at all. You see, so many people seem always tohave held out hands to me for money; and I've had so little money togive them."

  "And so--just to enable you to forget them a little--you started thisgreat game of make-believe; this pretending that you were somethingbetter (although that could never be, you know)--something bigger andgreater than you really were. The fine lady walked in her garden everynight, and saw the flowers grow, and heard the summer wind rustling thetrees and dreamed--what great dreams they were!"

  She nodded, with shining eyes. "And then you one day looked over thewall--and you seemed to understand in a moment. Any one else but you,coming out of the big world, would simply have laughed, and would haveseen that this was an old carpet, too shabby even for the house--andthis a table we couldn't use for anything else--and that a box that noone wanted. And yet in a moment--do you remember?--you knew perfectlywhat each thing was. It was wonderful!"

  "I remember." He nodded gravely. "I knew that was the ottoman--andbehind it the tapestry; I understood also how nice it was to havecoffee in the garden every evening. Arcadia Street doesn't run tocoffee--except in the morning."

  "I had read somewhere--it was in a paper that came to the house--thatladies and gentlemen take their coffee generally on the terrace.Well, of course, we couldn't manage a terrace, and I couldn't quiteunderstand whether it was anything like the terrace you get to roundthe corner, with the houses in a sort of half-circle, and the littlebit of green in front; only somehow I knew it couldn't be quitelike that; all I understood wa
s that it was out of doors. So thenI understood the best thing I could do was to make the most of thegarden; and it really isn't half bad--is it?"

  "It's a pity it isn't better appreciated," he said.

  "Father said he didn't understand what I was driving at; and then healways seemed to find the hole in the carpet and to trip over it. AndAmelia doesn't really make very good coffee; it's the sort you dare notstir too much."

  "Poor little Miss Make-Believe!" he said, a little sorrowfully. "Iwonder what you would do if the time came when some of your dreams cametrue, when you didn't have to make-believe any more; when you walkedout of this place, and left behind all the shabby pretences of it. Iwonder what you would say then?"

  "That's never likely to happen," she said, with a shake of the head."Father doesn't seem to belong to the rich side of the family. Hissister, who was here to-night--Aunt Julia, you know--has lots of money;she owns houses, you know, and lives in Clapham."

  "Wonderful Aunt Julia!" he said.

  "Father has said over and over again that if he had what he deserveshe would be a rich man. I don't quite know what he means; he's neververy explicit about it. But sometimes at night, when he comes homefrom--from his club, he cries a little, poor dear, and tells me whathe would give me if only he had what he ought to have. And I know hewould, too; he is really very generous by nature."

  Gilbert Byfield knew enough of the girl's story by that time not toneed to ask questions. Ever since that first meeting with her, when hehad carefully gained her confidence over the wall, he had been able,by the simple process of piecing together her innocent answers to hisquestions, to understand what she did, and what sort of struggle shewas constantly engaged in. He summed up the shiftless father and theshiftless son easily enough; understood, from the type of lodgers thatcame to the house, how difficult it must be for this girl to make bothends meet. Most he admired her unflinching courage, and above all thatcurious fanciful child-like nature that nothing had been able to crushor stamp out of her. With the most innocent feeling in the world, hehad fostered that, and encouraged it.

  It had been hard at times to remember that she was not a child, andthat he had no right to treat her as such; it had, above all things,been difficult for him to tell himself, over and over again, that thelife he lived in Arcadia Street was a sham, and that he was not thepoor man he seemed to be to her. She had been frankness itself withhim, and he should have been with her in return. Only of course he knewthat, once she understood that he was playing a part, her confidencein him, as someone as poor as herself and as struggling, would begone. For a period not yet defined in any way he intended to keep thatfiction alive, and remain near her. And in that again there was no realmotive, save one of pity for the girl.

  He asked a question now that had been on his lips many and many a time,and yet that he had not uttered before. They were standing togethernear the table, and she had one hand resting upon it; he noticedhow short the sleeve was, and guessed that she must long since haveoutgrown this dress, and many others she possessed. He rememberedsuddenly that her dresses had always seemed short. "How old are you,little Make-Believe?" he asked.

  "More than eighteen," she said; and laughed and blushed.

  A shadow darkened the doorway of the house, and a man stood there.Gilbert Byfield stood quite still, watching; for his presence therewould need explanation. The girl had drawn away from him, and waspeering at the man in the doorway; she spoke his name hesitatingly atlast--almost apologetically.

  "Mr. Quarle?" she asked. "Do you want me?"

  The man who stepped out from the doorway was a thickly-set man ofbetween fifty and sixty years of age, with thin grey hair and with asomewhat sour-looking face. His shoulders were very broad, and he hadthe appearance almost of a man whose head has been set too far forward;the sharp clean-shaven face was thrust well out, as though the manspent his time in peering into everything about him. He carried hishands locked behind him; his voice was rather harsh. Certainly therewas nothing amiable-looking about him.

  "I don't want you--but your father's asking for you," said the man.

  "I'll go in at once," said Bessie. "Oh--Mr. Quarle," she addednervously, slipping her hand through the arm of the man, and drawinghim forward a little--"this is Mr. Byfield--a friend of mine."

  "Pleased to know you, sir," said Quarle, with a face that belied hiswords. "New lodger?"

  "I live--next door," said Gilbert, a little lamely. For the girl hadrun into the house, and the situation was an absurd one. The onlyfashion in which he could leave this man, whose appearance he did notlike, was by an undignified exit over the wall; and he had no wish forthat. He could have gone out into the little alley behind, but he knewthat the door at the end of his own particular garden was always keptbolted. So he stood somewhat awkwardly looking at the newcomer, andwondering whether he had better say something about the moon, or thewarmth of the night. The man relieved him of the difficulty by speakingfirst.

  "My name is Simon Quarle," he said, coming a step or two nearer to theyounger man, and lowering his voice. "You're not likely to have heardof me; very few people have, because I keep myself to myself. It's ahabit of mine."

  "And a very excellent habit too, I should imagine," said Gilbert withmeaning.

  "I could wish it was a more general habit," retorted Quarle, witha quick glance at the house. "Now, sir--I'm old enough to be yourfather--old enough, under happier circumstances, to be the father ofthat girl who has just left us. And the Lord knows she needs a fatherbadly."

  "I believe she has one already," said Gilbert coldly.

  "She supports a drunken reprobate who has that title," retorted theman, with a snarl. "Perhaps, if he were worthy of the name, he mighthave something to say to a man who sneaks over a back wall at night totalk to his daughter."

  Gilbert made a quick movement towards the man; Quarle did not flinch,nor did he take his eyes from the face of the younger man. Again theabsurdity of his position was borne in upon Byfield; more than that, heseemed to see in this strange creature someone who had a greater rightto say that he was the friend of Bessie--a friend of an older standing.

  "You simply don't understand," said Gilbert. "From a younger man Ishouldn't stand it--but----"

  "Never mind my years," said the other. "I'll do you the justice tobelieve that yours has simply been the thoughtlessness of youth--thecarelessness of a man to whom women are all alike----"

  "I see that you don't understand," broke in Gilbert hotly. "I havebeen genuinely sorry to see this child slaving for those who shouldreally be supporting her; I have seen in her something purer andsweeter than in any woman I have met yet."

  "You're right there," said Simon Quarle, with a nod. "But you'd bestleave her alone to her garden, as she calls it, and to her dreams, andto the hard workaday world she knows. You belong to another world; goback to it."

  "How do you know I belong to another world?" demanded Gilbert.

  "Because I haven't lived in this one for nearly sixty years withoutwatching men, and growing to understand them. You don't belong toArcadia Street; you haven't the true stamp of it."

  Gilbert took an impatient turn or two about the garden, and then cameback to this strange man, who had not moved. "But if I tell you thatI'm interested in her--that I want to help her----"

  "Then I tell you that no help you can give her is of the sort she wantsor deserves," said Quarle steadily. "At the present time, you stand toher doubtless as someone wonderful, who can talk to her as no man hastalked to her yet--understand her with the understanding of youth. Andpresently, when the mood seizes you, you will turn your back on ArcadiaStreet, and go off to the world you know and understand. But you willleave her behind."

  Again there was a pause between the two men, and again the younger onestrode about impatiently, and again the elder one stood still, watchinghim. At last Gilbert came back to where Simon Quarle was standing.

  "I beg your pardon if I spoke hastily just now," he said. "I had noright to do that, because no ma
n would speak as you have done unless hewas her friend."

  "Thank you," said the other simply. "Anything else?"

  "I want to help her--I want to lift her out of this slum in which shelives--make some of her dreams come true. I am rich; I can do manythings secretly without her knowledge."

  "You are young; would you marry her?"

  "My dear sir--she's a child. Besides--I----"

  "Besides--you belong to another world," broke in Quarle mockingly."Get back over your wall, my friend, and leave her alone. Much betterleave her to her dreams and her fancies, even if they are never to berealized, than shatter them as you would shatter them. Get back overyour wall."

  "You don't understand, and I don't suppose you ever will," exclaimedGilbert quickly. "But I shall find a way to help her yet."

  "Perhaps--perhaps," said Simon Quarle, nodding his head slowly. "Butfor the present get back over your wall!"